arose, or where it was first heard, are alike unknown. Nothing about it is
certain, but that for months it was _the_ slang _par excellence_ of the
Londoners, and afforded them a vast gratification. "_There he goes with
his eye out!_" or "_There she goes with her eye out!_" as the sex of the
party alluded to might be, was in the mouth of every body who knew the
town. The sober part of the community were as much puzzled by this
unaccountable saying as the vulgar were delighted with it. The wise
thought it very foolish, but the many thought it very funny, and the idle
amused themselves by chalking it upon walls, or scribbling it upon
monuments. But "all that's bright must fade," even in slang. The people
grew tired of their hobby, and "_There he goes with his eye out!_" was
heard no more in its accustomed haunts.
Another very odd phrase came into repute in a brief space afterwards, in
the form of the impertinent and not universally apposite query, "_Has your
mother sold her mangle?_" But its popularity was not of that boisterous
and cordial kind which ensures a long continuance of favour. What tended
to impede its progress was, that it could not be well applied to the older
portions of society. It consequently ran but a brief career, and then sank
into oblivion. Its successor enjoyed a more extended fame, and laid its
foundations so deep, that years and changing fashions have not sufficed to
eradicate it. This phrase was "_Flare up!_" and it is, even now, a
colloquialism in common use. It took its rise in the time of the Reform
riots, when Bristol was nearly half burned by the infuriated populace. The
flames were said to have _flared up_ in the devoted city. Whether there
was any thing peculiarly captivating in the sound, or in the idea of these
words, is hard to say; but whatever was the reason, it tickled the
mob-fancy mightily, and drove all other slang out of the field before it.
Nothing was to be heard all over London but "_flare up!_" It answered all
questions, settled all disputes, was applied to all persons, all things,
and all circumstances, and became suddenly the most comprehensive phrase
in the English language. The man who had overstepped the bounds of decorum
in his speech was said to have _flared up_; he who had paid visits too
repeated to the gin-shop, and got damaged in consequence, had _flared up_.
To put one's self into a passion; to stroll out on a nocturnal frolic, and
alarm a neighbourhood, or to create a disturbance in any shape, was to
_flare up_. A lovers' quarrel was a _flare up_; so was a boxing-match
between two blackguards in the streets; and the preachers of sedition and
revolution recommended the English nation to _flare up_, like the French.
So great a favourite was the word, that people loved to repeat it for its
very sound. They delighted apparently in hearing their own organs
articulate it; and labouring men, when none who could respond to the call
were within hearing, would often startle the aristocratic echoes of the
West by the well-known slang phrase of the East. Even in the dead hours of
the night, the ears of those who watched late, or who could not sleep,
were saluted with the same sound. The drunkard reeling home shewed that he
was still a man and a citizen, by calling "_flare up!_" in the pauses of
his hiccough. Drink had deprived him of the power of arranging all other
ideas; his intellect was sunk to the level of the brute's; but he clung to
humanity by the one last link of the popular cry. While he could
vociferate that sound, he had rights as an Englishman, and would not sleep
in a gutter, like a dog! Onwards he went, disturbing quiet streets and
comfortable people by his whoop, till exhausted nature could support him
no more, and he rolled powerless into the road. When, in due time
afterwards, the policeman stumbled upon him as he lay, that guardian of
the peace turned the full light of his lantern on his face, and exclaimed,
"Here's a poor devil who has been _flaring up_!" Then came the stretcher,
on which the victim of deep potations was carried to the watch-house, and
pitched into a dirty cell, among a score of wretches about as far gone as
himself, who saluted their new comrade by a loud, long shout of _flare
up_!
So universal was this phrase, and so enduring seemed its popularity, that
a speculator, who knew not the evanescence of slang, established a weekly
newspaper under its name. But he was like the man who built his house upon
the sand; his foundation gave way under him, and the phrase and the
newspaper were washed into the mighty sea of the things that were. The
people grew at last weary of the monotony, and "_flare up_" became vulgar
even among them. Gradually it was left to little boys who did not know the
world, and in process of time sank altogether into neglect. It is now
heard no more as a piece of popular slang; but the words are still used to
signify any sudden outburst either of fire, disturbance, or ill-nature.
The next phrase that enjoyed the favour of the million was less concise,
and seems to have been originally aimed against precocious youths who gave
themselves the airs of manhood before their time. "_Does your mother know
you're out?_" was the provoking query addressed to young men of more than
reasonable swagger, who smoked cigars in the streets, and wore false
whiskers to look irresistible. We have seen many a conceited fellow who
could not suffer a woman to pass him without staring her out of
countenance, reduced at once into his natural insignificance by the mere
utterance of this phrase. Apprentice lads and shopmen in their Sunday
clothes held the words in abhorrence, and looked fierce when they were
applied to them. Altogether the phrase had a very salutary effect, and in
a thousand instances shewed young Vanity that it was not half so pretty
and engaging as it thought itself. What rendered it so provoking was the
doubt it implied as to the capability of self-guidance possessed by the
individual to whom it was addressed. "_Does your mother know you're out?_"
was a query of mock concern and solicitude, implying regret and concern
that one so young and inexperienced in the ways of a great city should be
allowed to wander abroad without the guidance of a parent. Hence the great
wrath of those who verged on manhood, but had not reached it, whenever
they were made the subject of it. Even older heads did not like it; and
the heir of a ducal house, and inheritor of a warrior's name, to whom they
were applied by a cabriolet-driver who was ignorant of his rank, was so
indignant at the affront, that he summoned the offender before the
magisterial bench. The fellow had wished to impose upon his lordship by
asking double the fare he was entitled to; and when his lordship resisted
the demand, he was insultingly asked "if his mother knew he was out?" All
the drivers on the stand joined in the query, and his lordship was fain to
escape their laughter by walking away with as much haste as his dignity
would allow. The man pleaded ignorance that his customer was a lord, but
offended justice fined him for his mistake.
When this phrase had numbered its appointed days, it died away like its
predecessors, and "_Who are you?_" reigned in its stead. This new
favourite, like a mushroom, seems to have sprung up in a night, or, like a
frog in Cheapside, to have come down in a sudden shower. One day it was
unheard, unknown, uninvented; the next it pervaded London. Every alley
resounded with it; every highway was musical with it,
"And street to street, and lane to lane flung back
The one unvarying cry."
The phrase was uttered quickly, and with a sharp sound upon the first and
last words, leaving the middle one little more than an aspiration. Like
all its compeers which had been extensively popular, it was applicable to
almost every variety of circumstance. The lovers of a plain answer to a
plain question did not like it at all. Insolence made use of it to give
offence; ignorance to avoid exposing itself; and waggery to create
laughter. Every new comer into an alehouse tap-room was asked
unceremoniously, "_Who are you?_" and if he looked foolish, scratched his
head, and did not know what to reply, shouts of boisterous merriment
resounded on every side. An authoritative disputant was not unfrequently
put down, and presumption of every kind checked by the same query. When
its popularity was at its height, a gentleman, feeling the hand of a thief
in his pocket, turned suddenly round and caught him in the act,
exclaiming, "_Who are you?_" The mob which gathered round applauded to the
very echo, and thought it the most capital joke they had ever heard, the
very acmé of wit, the very essence of humour. Another circumstance of a
similar kind gave an additional fillip to the phrase, and infused new life
and vigour into it just as it was dying away. The scene occurred in the
chief criminal court of the kingdom. A prisoner stood at the bar; the
offence with which he had been charged was clearly proved against him; his
counsel had been heard, not in his defence, but in extenuation, insisting
upon his previous good life and character as reasons for the lenity of the
court. "And where are your witnesses?" inquired the learned judge who
presided. "Please you, my lord, I knows the prisoner at the bar, and a
more honester feller never breathed," said a rough voice in the gallery.
The officers of the court looked aghast, and the strangers tittered with
ill-suppressed laughter. "_Who are you?_" said the judge, looking suddenly
up, but with imperturbable gravity. The court was convulsed; the titter
broke out into a laugh; and it was several minutes before silence and
decorum could be restored. When the ushers recovered their
self-possession, they made diligent search for the profane transgressor;
but he was not to be found. Nobody knew him; nobody had seen him. After a
while the business of the court again proceeded. The next prisoner brought
up for trial augured favourably of his prospects when he learned that the
solemn lips of the representative of justice had uttered the popular
phrase as if he felt and appreciated it. There was no fear that such a
judge would use undue severity. His heart was with the people; he
understood their language and their manners, and would make allowances for
the temptations which drove them into crime. So thought many of the
prisoners, if we may infer it from the fact that the learned judge
suddenly acquired an immense increase of popularity. The praise of his wit
was in every mouth, and "_Who are you?_" renewed its lease, and remained
in possession of public favour for another term in consequence.
But it must not be supposed that there were no interregna between the
dominion of one slang phrase and another. They did not arise in one long
line of unbroken succession, but shared with song the possession of
popular favour. Thus, when the people were in the mood for music, slang
advanced its claims to no purpose; and when they were inclined for slang,
the sweet voice of music wooed them in vain. About thirty years ago London
resounded with one chorus, with the love of which every body seemed to be
smitten. Girls and boys, young men and old, maidens and wives and widows,
were all alike musical. There was an absolute mania for singing; and the
worst of it was, that, like good Father Philip in the romance of _The
Monastery_, they seemed utterly unable to change their tune. "Cherry
ripe!" "Cherry ripe!" was the universal cry of all the idle in the town.
Every unmelodious voice gave utterance to it; every crazy fiddle, every
cracked flute, every wheezy pipe, every street-organ was heard in the same
strain, until studious and quiet men stopped their ears in desperation, or
fled miles away into the fields or woodlands to be at peace. This plague
lasted for a twelvemonth, until the very name of cherries became an
abomination in the land. At last the excitement wore itself away, and the
tide of favour set in a new direction. Whether it was another song or a
slang phrase is difficult to determine at this distance of time; but
certain it is, that very shortly afterwards people went mad upon a
dramatic subject, and nothing was to be heard of but "_Tommy and Jerry_."
Verbal wit had amused the multitude long enough, and they became more
practical in their recreation. Every youth on the town was seized with the
fierce desire of distinguishing himself by knocking down the "_charlies_,"
being locked up all night in a watch-house, or kicking up a row among
loose women and blackguard men in the low dens of St. Giles's. Imitative
boys vied with their elders in similar exploits, until this unworthy
passion (for such it was) had lasted, like other follies, its appointed
time, and the town became merry after another fashion. It was next thought
the height of vulgar wit to answer all questions by placing the point of
the thumb upon the tip of the nose, and twirling the fingers in the air.
If one man wished to insult or annoy another, he had only to make use of
this cabalistic sign in his face, and his object was accomplished. At
every street-corner where a group was assembled, the spectator who was
curious enough to observe their movements would be sure to see the fingers
of some of them at their noses, either as a mark of incredulity, surprise,
refusal, or mockery, before he had watched two minutes. There is some
remnant of this absurd custom to be seen to this day; but it is thought
low even among the vulgar.
About sixteen years ago, London became again most preposterously musical.
The _vox populi_ wore itself hoarse by singing the praises of "The Sea,
the Sea!" If a stranger (and a philosopher) had walked through London, and
listened to the universal chorus, he might have constructed a very pretty
theory upon the love of the English for the sea-service, and our
acknowledged superiority over all other nations upon that element. "No
wonder," he might have said, "that this people is invincible upon the
ocean. The love of it mixes with their daily thoughts; they celebrate it
even in the market-place; their street-minstrels excite charity by it; and
high and low, young and old, male and female, chant _lo pæans_ in its
praise. Love is not honoured in the national songs of this warlike
race--Bacchus is no god to them; they are men of sterner mould, and think
only of 'the Sea, the Sea!' and the means of conquering upon it."
Such would, doubtless, have been his impression if he had taken the
evidence only of his ears. Alas, in those days for the refined ears that
_were_ musical! great was their torture when discord, with its thousand
diversities of tone, struck up this appalling anthem--there was no escape
from it. The migratory minstrels of Savoy caught the strain, and pealed it
down the long vistas of quiet streets, till their innermost and snuggest
apartments re-echoed with the sound. Men were obliged to endure this
crying evil for full six months, wearied to desperation, and made
_sea_-sick on the dry land.
Several other songs sprang up in due succession, afterwards, but none of
them, with the exception of one, entitled "All round my Hat," enjoyed any
extraordinary share of favour, until an American actor introduced a vile
song called "Jim Crow." The singer sang his verses in appropriate costume,
with grotesque gesticulations, and a sudden whirl of his body at the close
of each verse. It took the taste of the town immediately, and for months
the ears of orderly people were stunned by the senseless chorus--
"Turn about and wheel about,
And do just so--
Turn about and wheel about,
And jump, Jim Crow!"
Street-minstrels blackened their faces in order to give proper effect to
the verses; and fatherless urchins, who had to choose between thieving and
singing for their livelihood, took the latter course, as likely to be the
more profitable, as long as the public taste remained in that direction.
The uncouth dance, its accompaniment, might be seen in its full perfection
on market nights in any great thoroughfare; and the words of the song
might be heard, piercing above all the din and buzz of the ever-moving
multitude. He, the calm observer, who during the hey-day popularity of
this doggrel,
"Sate beside the public way,
Thick strewn with summer dust, and saw the stream
Of people there was hurrying to and fro,
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam,"
might have exclaimed with Shelley, that
"The million, with fierce song and maniac dance,
Did rage around."
The philosophic theorist we have already supposed soliloquising upon the
English character, and forming his opinion of it from their exceeding love
for a sea-song, might, if he had again dropped suddenly into London, have
formed another very plausible theory to account for our unremitting
efforts for the abolition of the slave-trade. "Benevolent people!" he
might have said, "how unbounded are your sympathies! Your unhappy brethren
of Africa, differing from you only in the colour of their skins, are so
dear to you, and you begrudge so little the twenty millions you have paid
on their behalf, that you love to have a memento of them continually in
your sight. Jim Crow is the representative of that injured race, and as
such is the idol of your populace! See how they all sing his praises! how
they imitate his peculiarities! how they repeat his name in their moments
of leisure and relaxation! They even carve images of him to adorn their
hearths, that his cause and his sufferings may never be forgotten! Oh,
philanthropic England! oh, vanguard of civilisation!"
Such are a few of the peculiarities of the London multitude, when no riot,
no execution, no murder, no balloon, disturbs the even current of their
thoughts. These are the whimsies of the mass--the harmless follies by
which they unconsciously endeavour to lighten the load of care which
presses upon their existence. The wise man, even though he smile at them,
will not altogether withhold his sympathy, and will say, "Let them enjoy
their slang phrases and their choruses if they will; and if they cannot be
happy, at least let them be merry." To the Englishman, as well as to the
Frenchman of whom Beranger sings, there may be some comfort in so small a
thing as a song, and we may own with him that
"Au peuple attristé
Ce qui rendra la gaîté,
C'est la GAUDRIOLE!
O gué!
C'est la GAUDRIOLE!"
[Illustration: SHERWOOD FOREST.]
POPULAR ADMIRATION OF GREAT THIEVES.
_Jack._ Where shall we find such another set of practical
philosophers, who, to a man, are above the fear of death!
_Wat._ Sound men and true!
_Robin._ Of tried courage and indefatigable industry!
_Ned._ Who is there here that would not die for his friend?
_Harry._ Who is there here that would betray him for his interest?
_Mat._ Shew me a gang of courtiers that could say as much!
_Dialogue of Thieves in the Beggar's Opera_.
Whether it be that the multitude, feeling the pangs of poverty, sympathise
with the daring and ingenious depredators who take away the rich man's
superfluity, or whether it be the interest that mankind in general feel
for the records of perilous adventure, it is certain that the populace of
all countries look with admiration upon great and successful thieves.
Perhaps both these causes combine to invest their career with charms in
the popular eye. Almost every country in Europe has its traditional thief,
whose exploits are recorded with all the graces of poetry, and whose
trespasses
"Are cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding tunes."[45]
[45] Shakspeare's _Rape of Lucretia_.
Those travellers who have made national manners and characteristics their
peculiar study, have often observed and remarked upon this feeling. The
learned Abbé le Blanc, who resided for some time in England at the
commencement of the eighteenth century, says, in his amusing letters on
the English and French nations, that he continually met with Englishmen
who were not less vain in boasting of the success of their highwaymen than
of the bravery of their troops. Tales of their address, their cunning, or
their generosity, were in the mouths of every body, and a noted thief was
a kind of hero in high repute. He adds that the mob, in all countries,
being easily moved, look in general with concern upon criminals going to
the gallows; but an English mob looked upon such scenes with extraordinary
interest: they delighted to see them go through their last trials with
resolution, and applauded those who were insensible enough to die as they
had lived, braving the justice both of God and men: such, he might have
added, as the noted robber Macpherson, of whom the old ballad says:
"Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he:
He played a spring, and danced it round
Beneath the gallows tree."
Among these traditional thieves the most noted in England, or perhaps in
any country, is Robin Hood, a name which popular affection has encircled
with a peculiar halo. "He robbed the rich to give to the poor;" and his
reward has been an immortality of fame, a tithe of which would be thought
more than sufficient to recompense a benefactor of his species. Romance
and poetry have been emulous to make him all their own; and the forest of
Sherwood, in which he roamed with his merry men, armed with their long
bows, and clad in Lincoln green, has become the resort of pilgrims, and a
classic spot sacred to his memory. The few virtues he had, which would
have ensured him no praise if he had been an honest man, have been
blazoned forth by popular renown during seven successive centuries, and
will never be forgotten while the English tongue endures. His charity to
the poor, and his gallantry and respect for women, have made him the
pre-eminent thief of all the world.
Among English thieves of a later date, who has not heard of Claude Duval,
Dick Turpin, Jonathan Wild, and Jack Sheppard, those knights of the road
and of the town, whose peculiar chivalry formed at once the dread and the
delight of England during the eighteenth century? Turpin's fame is unknown
to no portion of the male population of England after they have attained
the age of ten. His wondrous ride from London to York has endeared him to
the imagination of millions; his cruelty in placing an old woman upon a
fire, to force her to tell him where she had hidden her money, is regarded
as a good joke; and his proud bearing upon the scaffold is looked upon as
a virtuous action. The Abbé le Blanc, writing in 1737, says he was
continually entertained with stories of Turpin--how, when he robbed
gentlemen, he would generously leave them enough to continue their
journey, and exact a pledge from them never to inform against him, and how
scrupulous such gentlemen were in keeping their word. He was one day told
a story with which the relator was in the highest degree delighted.
Turpin, or some other noted robber, stopped a man whom he knew to be very
rich, with the usual salutation--"Your money or your life!" but not
finding more than five or six guineas about him, he took the liberty of
entreating him, in the most affable manner, never to come out so ill
provided; adding that, if he fell in with him, and he had no more than
such a paltry sum, he would give him a good licking. Another story, told
by one of Turpin's admirers, was of a robbery he had committed upon a Mr.
C. near Cambridge. He took from this gentleman his watch, his snuff-box,
and all his money but two shillings, and, before he left him, required his
word of honour that he would not cause him to be pursued or brought before
a justice. The promise being given, they both parted very courteously.
They afterwards met at Newmarket, and renewed their acquaintance. Mr. C.
kept his word religiously; he not only refrained from giving Turpin into
custody, but made a boast that he had fairly won some of his money back
again in an honest way. Turpin offered to bet with him on some favourite
horse, and Mr. C. accepted the wager with as good a grace as he could have
done from the best gentleman in England. Turpin lost his bet and paid it
immediately, and was so smitten with the generous behaviour of Mr. C.,
that he told him how deeply he regretted that the trifling affair which
had happened between them did not permit them to drink together. The
narrator of this anecdote was quite proud that England was the birthplace
of such a highwayman.[46]